Fabada Bada Bing

Every morning, all over Asturias in northern Spain, big pots of beans and sausage are fired up to make the day’s fabada. Similar to France’s cassoulet and  to Brazil’s feijoada, fabada’s smoky perfume pervades entire villages.

Although it’s a robust, heavy dish, it’s made year round. I was a little puzzled by this at first. That was on a bright and balmy day in Taramundi. A couple of days later, it all became clear. July in Asturias can be heavenly, a mild and sparkling paradise of streams and verdant fields. On the other days, it rains. And it’s cold. The kind of wear-a-warm-sweater-and-good-raincoat-with-your-woolly-socks kind of day.  A day when a big, steaming bowl of beans is the perfect antidote to the gloomy mood of the weather.

What makes fabada so special isn’t the smoked paprika or the saffron. Nor is it the four kinds of pork—although, I have to say, I like the attitude those meats embody. Why be satisfied with one measly sausage when you can have yet another kind, plus a little pork belly and a lot of ham? That farm isn’t going to take care of itself, you know. You need some sustenance in order to last until your dinner at 10:00 p.m. Plus, how are you going to have the energy to tromp up and down those mountains all day?

The best part of fabada, however, is the beans. Fabes beans are gigantic. Their creamy insides become permeated with all the flavors of the stew and each bite is a gentle, almost imperceptible pop of saffron and smoke.

Unfortunately, the beans themselves are ridiculously expensive. There just isn't a big crop of them because they’re eaten almost exclusively in Asturias. Although the export market is miniscule, luckily you can order them here in the U.S. at La Tienda or pick them up at Despana in New York.  If you’re really desperate, corona beans beans from are an adequate substitute.

Below you’ll find a recipe loosely based on one from Jenny Chandler’s indispensible book, The Food of Northern Spain. Everyone makes fabada a little differently (of course) but with a little family research and some observation, I think I’ve gotten as close as I can to a dish that for me evokes the smell of wet stones and grass, and the sound of rain against the casements.

Fabada

1 kilo (a little more than two pounds) fabes beans, soaked overnight

8 ounces chorizo

8 ounces morcilla (Spanish blood sausage)

8 ounces serrano ham, cut into large cubes and soaked overnight

8 ounces of pork belly, cut into two pieces

1 peeled onion

large pinch of saffron

2 teaspoons of smoked paprika

salt, to taste

Place the beans, chorizo, morcilla, ham, saffron, smoked paprika, and the onion in a large pot and cover with cold water. Bring slowly to a boil, skimming off any scum that rises to the top.

My husband’s aunt and Jenny Chandler recommend throwing in a cup of cold water to “shock” the beans when they come to a boil and then reduce to a low simmer. You want to cook the beans very slowly so that they don’t fall apart and become mush. For this reason, you shouldn’t stir the pot either, but just jiggle it a little to make sure nothing is sticking to the bottom.

Cook for two to three hours, tasting for tenderness. Whenever the liquid gets a little low, “shock” it with a little more cold water so that the beans are covered while simmering.

Although you can serve the fabada right away, it’s best if you’ve made it in the morning and it’s had a chance to sit for a few hours. In fact , it’s even better made the day before.

Add a green salad and a temperanillo, and you have dinner for eight. Or dinner and/or lunch for two all week long.

 

 

 

 

Comments

[Janine Serresseque]

That sounds and looks divine. Have you seen the gigantes beans at Nick's Produce on Broad St. downtown? They are also gigantic, hence the name, and may be a good sub. They are also very creamy inside. They are about the size of the pad of an average thumb when they're cooked.